Ramadan in a fishing boat
Fasting while serving in the military in Zanzibar tested everything I thought I knew about gratitude.
How do you fast when you work 12-hour night shifts? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Zanzibar.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was the highlight of my year. My father would start cooking at 4pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole village smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you learn not to expect.
But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the hospital is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Hajia Khadijah, who has been here for years, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen too much sit in circles memorising Quran as if the words are armour.
Maybe they are.
Last Ramadan, on the 27th night, someone put candles in every doorway. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had been through the worst, were still reaching for the holiest night of the year.
Ramadan taught me that worship is not about abundance. It's about what you offer when you have almost nothing left to give.